Evidence
by Joodiff
Summary: In which Mel and Frankie are as guilty as sin, Spencer is disgusted, Grace is both amused and resigned, and Boyd... well, Boyd is in serious danger of his blood pressure reaching an all-time high. Complete. T for language. Birthday present for Scription Addict. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

 _A/N: Warning - may not be quite as fluffy as it first appears!_

 **Happy birthday to Scription Addict! xx**

* * *

 **Evidence**

by Joodiff

* * *

"No," Grace says, and she means it. She categorically means it. She looks from Mel to Frankie and back, shakes her head and repeats in an even firmer tone, "No, absolutely not. You're on your own this time. I'm not having _anything_ to do with it."

"Don't look at me," Spencer adds hurriedly from behind his desk as both of the younger female heads turn expectantly in his direction. He shakes his head, too, and scowls at them. "It's _your_ problem, not ours."

"But look at him, Spence," Mel tries in a wheedling tone, "he's so cute…"

She has a point, Grace has to admit, if grudgingly and only to herself. The little shaggy grey dog may very well still be rather bedraggled, but his wide brown eyes are clear and trusting, and as he sits in the middle of the CCU's squad room looking round at them all, his stumpy tail gently starts to wag.

Leaning against Spencer's desk, Frankie says, "I think we should call him Max."

"Yeah, and _I_ think we should call him Caesar," Mel counters. From the speed and forcefulness of the riposte, Grace suspects there has already been some heated discussion on the subject.

"Reality check," Spencer interrupts, his cool distaste obvious, "we're not calling him _anything_."

"Spence, you can be such a – " Frankie starts, and freezes as she hears – as they _all_ hear – the unmistakable and rapidly approaching irritable bellow that indicates that not only is Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd back from his sudden, unscheduled afternoon meeting at New Scotland Yard, but that he's also extremely unhappy about something. Or with some _one_. Either is possible, and neither is good news for anyone on his long-suffering team.

"Christ," Mel mutters, glancing round the squad room for somewhere to hide their recent acquisition. To her co-conspirator she says, "Quick, Frankie, shove him under my desk!"

Despite her sternness, Grace is finding it more and more difficult not to give in and laugh at their antics. The sight of a guilty-looking Mel and Frankie rushing to conceal their hairy new friend beneath room's central block of desks and tables is just too funny. She catches Spencer's eye and he grimaces, knowing as well as she does that there is undoubtedly Trouble Ahead. Probably of the very loud and bad-tempered kind. A second or two later, the big double doors fly open, rebounding loudly off the concrete walls. More amused than she dares show, Grace raises her eyebrows at Boyd as he stamps his way into the room, and inquires with a slight smirk, "It went well, then?"

"What a complete waste of – " he starts at a truly impressive volume and then breaks off, dark eyes narrowing as he stares with deep and considered suspicion at Mel and Frankie, now standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the tight cluster of tables, their faces wearing identical bland expressions. When he speaks again his voice is low and quiet. Dangerously so. He points, demands, "What the bloody hell is _that_?"

Max-or-Caesar is peering out from behind Frankie's legs, his pink tongue lolling as he pants slightly. Spencer looks at Boyd. Frankie looks at Mel. Mel looks at Grace. Straight-faced, Grace offers a calm, "It's a dog, Boyd."

"Yes," he says, his over-controlled tone more than a little worrying, "I can _see_ that, thank you, Grace. What the _fuck_ is it doing in my squad room?"

"Er…" Mel mumbles, looking towards Grace.

Saving them both from further inquisition, Frankie cuts in with a bold, "It's evidence."

" _Evidence_ ," Boyd echoes. He folds his arms across his broad chest, gazes steadily at Frankie and says, "I see. Go on, then. I really can't _wait_ to hear this. How exactly is that… creature… evidence?"

"He was tied up at Barrett's yard," Mel supplies.

Frankie nods in rapid agreement. "We brought him… _it_ … back to the lab to… er… take samples."

The unit's young sergeant is quick to back up her colleague. "We thought, you know… Possible forensics."

"Right," Boyd says. He looks at each of them in turn, not bothering to hide his sceptical expression. Clearly, he's very well aware of exactly where the guilt lies, because he gives Mel a particularly long and withering look before returning his attention to Frankie. Voice still quiet, he inquires, "And have you collected all the _samples_ you need, Doctor Wharton?"

"Well, um, yes…" Frankie confirms, looking towards Mel for further support. This time none is forthcoming. Grace isn't surprised.

Boyd's intimidating glower doesn't lessen. "Then I suggest you call the dog section and arrange for more suitable… accommodation. Grace, a word."

He heads into his office leaving a wry and reproving Grace to shake her head at Mel and Frankie before following him.

-oOo-

Of course, once his door is closed, most of Boyd's irritable gruffness falls away, but as he sits down behind his desk, he grumbles, "Dear God, no wonder people think I'm running a three-ring circus down here. A bloody dog, Grace? From Barrett's yard? Seriously?"

"Apparently so," Grace nods, settling herself in her customary chair. His outrage doesn't faze her. "To be fair, Frankie _has_ taken some samples, just in case there's anything caught in his… _its_ … coat that can tie Drummond to the scene."

"What, just in case he stopped to pat the damned dog before going into the building and beating Barrett half to death?" Boyd asks her with a heavy note of sarcasm clear in his voice. "God, I hate cold cases that suddenly heat up to boiling point the minute you go anywhere fucking near them. Have you spoken to Pearce?"

"Just after lunch," she confirms with another nod, the memory of the rank smell of the small, damp and none-too-clean flat still fresh in her mind. "Spence and I went to see him while the animal rescue squad out there were fetching Fido, or whatever it is they're going to call him. I think they've decided the CCU needs a mascot."

"I'm having a bad dream," Boyd announces, running a hand through his thick grey hair. One recalcitrant lock escapes, falls across his forehead. Grace notices. His tone is decisive as he adds, "Any minute now I'm going to wake up and find that the bloody alarm clock's about to go off. Well? What did Pearce have to say?"

"Same as he said the last time we interviewed him," she's forced to admit, trying to focus more on work than on the temptation to stand up, lean across his desk and use her fingers to stroke his tousled hair back into order. She's far too professional to allow herself to entertain such… entertaining… notions at work. Isn't she? "He has no idea who killed Paul Fitch or why."

"But we still think he's lying?"

"We do," she agrees.

"Wonderful," Boyd says, gloomy and resigned. "And I suppose you're going to tell me there's no further progress on the Southwark assault case, either…?"

-oOo-

"I _don't_ want to know," Grace tells Mel, a while later. It's early evening now, and with nothing urgent in-hand that can't wait until the morning, the junior members of the CCU's central team are about to make a determined bid for freedom. In fact, as far as Grace knows, Frankie has somehow already managed to escape the building. It doesn't look like Spencer and Mel are going to be far behind her, either.

"But – " Mel begins.

"No," Grace interrupts. "If I don't know, I can't tell, can I?"

"Fair point," her colleague agrees. She smiles, says, "Thanks, Grace. See you tomorrow…"

"'Night, Mel," Grace murmurs, and she smiles herself as she watches the subsequent furtive dash towards the exit. Moments later, Spencer follows Mel out of the squad room, raising a languid hand in farewell salute as he goes.

Sighing, she settles again to finish the long and tedious psychological report she's been struggling with on and off all day. She isn't aware of the amount of time that passes or of how immersed she's become in the words she's gamely stringing together until the sudden roar that goes up: " _Grace_."

Sometimes she wonders if Boyd shouts so much simply because he enjoys it. Maybe he finds it comforting. She should research the phenomenon one day. It could form the basis of an interesting paper on the psychology of –

"Grace!"

At the second deafening summons, she takes off her reading glasses, stands up and goes to her office door. He's standing in the middle of the squad room in his shirtsleeves, and the thunderous expression on his face doesn't bode well for _anyone_ , let alone for Mel and Frankie.

"Yes?" she snaps, not bothering to conceal her irritation. "You yelled?"

Boyd ignores her pointed tone. "Can you hear that?"

Grace listens. She can hear the familiar soft wheezing sound of the aging forced ventilation system, and she can hear all the quiet, ordinary background noises that might be expected from a large building that's gradually settling for the night. She can't hear anything else. She gives Boyd a quizzical look, asks, "Can I hear _what_ , exactly?"

"Wait," is his terse reply.

And then Grace hears it. A low, mournful and very definitely canine sound.

Max-or-Caesar.

And for one fleeting moment she's certain Boyd's blood pressure is going to reach such an all-time high that he will keel over on the spot.

He doesn't. But – of course – he does start shouting again. And Grace is suddenly very glad she is neither Mel Silver nor Frankie Wharton, because according to the very basic but highly creative invective currently being heaped on their respective heads, they are both going to be summoned for a very interesting, and almost certainly very loud, meeting with the CCU's commanding officer in the morning.

-oOo-

"But – " the plaintive voice on the other end of the line attempts to argue.

" _No_ ," Grace interjects. She's not in the mood to be charitable. The chances of her enjoying a quiet, relaxing, _intimate_ evening with her long-standing friend, colleague, and clandestine lover are dwindling fast no matter what was half-promised just that very morning. "The pair of you have really done it this time, Frankie. He's kicking things round the squad room and shouting his damned head off. I can hear him from _here_ , and I'm in the holding cell with your little waif and stray. Get back here and get it sorted."

"I can't," is Frankie's obstinate reply, although she does sound a little repentant. "I'm halfway through giving a lecture on the effects of – "

" _Frankie_."

Frankie doesn't give ground. "I really _can't_ , Grace. The students are due back from their coffee break in about two minutes. This is an official Home Office forensics course, and I can't just up and leave them to it. Can't you call Mel?"

Patience wearing thin, she says, "I've already spoken to Mel. And her excuses are even worse than _yours_."

"Sorry."

Grace glares into the mid-distance, fingers unconsciously tightening on her phone. Angry with them both as she is, she's still capable of pragmatism. "I suppose it's down to me, then, is it?"

"I'll come in early tomorrow, I promise."

"Not good enough," Grace tells her, but then she succumbs to the inevitable with a bitter sigh. "All right, all right. Leave it with me. But you're in _serious_ trouble – the pair of you. And not just with _Boyd_."

Frankie's voice is very small. "Thanks, Grace."

Grace sighs again as she disconnects the call. She's standing in the small block-built holding cell adjacent to the CCU's two interview rooms and the little grey dog is sitting bolt upright in front of her, tail wagging, his bright unblinking eyes fixed on her. His well-meaning rescuers have provided him with food, water, and a blanket, but Grace does not, in all conscience, think she can close the heavy cell door on him again. It's been a long, long time since she owned any sort of pet, and although she likes animals well enough in theory, she's not at all sure she wants the responsibility of one foisted upon her, even temporarily. Still, the little dog's expression is incredibly appealing…

-oOo-

Boyd's reaction is, once again, utterly predictable, but all too soon flamboyant irascibility gives way to complete incredulity as he demands, "You're not bloody _serious_? Come on, Grace… For God's sake…"

"Well, what else are we going to do?" she demands, glaring back at him.

He raises his eyebrows at her. "' _We'_ …? When did this become a question of 'we', exactly?"

Not replying, Grace raises her own eyebrows in return.

Evidently sensing impending defeat, Boyd groans. "Oh, no. No, no, _no_. Not going to happen. Get hold of the dog section, call the damned RSPCA, or just take it to Battersea Dogs Home, I really don't care. But it's not staying here, and we're _not_ taking it home. I'm not having some mangy, flea-bitten – "

" _He's_ not mangy," she argues, stressing the pronoun.

"I don't bloody care whether _it_ is or not, Grace. It's not putting one single paw inside my front door."

The whole matter is going to come down to a straightforward clash of wills, she knows, and while Boyd may be one of the most intensely stubborn people she has ever met, nowadays Grace has a near-infallible way of gaining the upper hand – and they both know it. The deployment of more overt feminine wiles may yet prove unnecessary, but she most certainly isn't afraid to fall back on their use if she really must. When it comes to their shared life outside the CCU's structured environs, she knows perfectly well how to get her own way when she needs to. Accordingly, she shrugs. "All right."

Boyd's reaction is a slow, suspicious, "'All right'? And that's the end of the matter, is it?"

"Of course," Grace says, quiet and serene. "You've made your mind up, Peter, and I _fully_ respect that."

He winces at the deliberate use of his first name. "Oh, God…"

She smiles at him with limpid innocence, knowing she's going to win. "Relax. Go home, have a quiet beer, and enjoy your dog-free zone. Don't worry, I'll take him to my house instead."

Out-manoeuvred, Boyd frowns. "Hang on, that's _not_ how it's supposed to work..."

Nodding sagely, Grace says, "I know. But I'm not running around London trying to find somewhere that will take him in at this time of night, and if you won't let us take him to your place…"

Boyd's response is a magnificently surly, "Oh, fine. Bloody _fine_. But I'm warning you, Grace, if it even _thinks_ about chewing my furniture I'll personally wring its scrawny neck. And _yours_."

Game, set, and match to Doctor Foley. Of course.

-oOo-

Appearing from the kitchen, Boyd glowers at the little dog that's cuddled up to her. "Off the damned couch."

"He's not doing any harm," Grace complains, which though true enough seems to do nothing to soothe her irascible companion's considerable ire.

"You're really pushing your luck, you know," Boyd retorts. He eyes the animal with icy distaste and snaps his fingers, a sharp sound in the otherwise quiet room. "You. Dog. _Off_ the bloody couch."

To Grace's surprise – and vague indignation – the terrier immediately does as it's told. It hops off the couch onto the floor and sits down, its attention all on Boyd. Man and canine regard each other in steely silence for a moment, and when Boyd finally drops onto the couch himself, the dog immediately lies down at his feet. Grace isn't sure whether she's charmed or disgusted by the animal's sudden, traitorous change of allegiance. Trying not to sound annoyed, she says, "You obviously missed your calling, Boyd. You should have been a dog-handler, not a detective."

Reaching for his unfinished glass of wine, he says, "I believe actually _liking_ dogs is something of a prerequisite for that job."

"When we first met, you had a dog," she points out, remembering, without much affection, the big, bad-tempered creature in question. A muscular, thick-coated brown monster of indeterminate breed, it had been far too fond of barking and baring its – large – teeth at people for her taste.

Stretching out his long legs, Boyd shakes his head. "No. Jenny had a dog. Completely different thing."

"All right," Grace concedes, wondering if he will ever decide to tell her the full truth about his sudden and unforeseen – at least by her – split with his long-term girlfriend, and how he really still feels about losing all contact with the happy, bright toddler he was bringing up as his own, " _Jenny_ had a dog. Which used to sit in the back of your car and growl at people at crime scenes."

"Dogs like me. It doesn't necessarily follow that _I_ like dogs."

Knowing he's being contrary just to make himself feel better, Grace smiles to herself, takes a sip of her own wine and then asks, "Max or Caesar?"

"Neither," is the prompt reply. "First thing in the bloody morning I'm taking it to the pound myself since apparently none of the rest of you can be trusted. And _then_ I'm going to have a quiet word with both Detective Sergeant Silver and Doctor Wharton."

"A 'quiet word'? One that they'll hear up on the second floor, no doubt?"

He gives her a sharp, hard-eyed look. "Don't even _think_ about defending them, Grace. Bloody _evidence_. Do I look stupid?" He rather unfairly prods the terrier with his foot. "What do you think, evidence dog…?"

The dog wags its tail at him in reply, and that, of course, is when Grace realises that whatever Boyd says, and however petulantly he says it, the scruffy little terrier isn't going anywhere in a hurry. The CCU, it seems, might just have acquired a mascot, just as Mel and Frankie proposed.

Hiding her knowing, affectionate grin, she inquires, "Are you tired?"

Not catching on, Boyd frowns. "Not particularly, why?"

She arches a single, meaningful eyebrow at him. "I just thought you might fancy an early night…"

-oOo-

Probably, it's only Grace who isn't at all surprised by the terrier's continued presence in the CCU's basement headquarters as one day becomes two, then three and four. Everyone else is plainly astonished – but wise enough to keep their collective mouths shut. It's obvious that Evidence Dog has chosen his master. And his chosen master is irritable, quick-tempered, and far too senior in rank for anyone to dare question his intentions. As for Boyd, if he ever affects to notice the little dog in front of any of them, it is with a haughty sort of disdain – but whenever he snaps his fingers the animal trots obediently at his heel with no apparent requirement for a collar or lead. Within only a very short space of time it's quite clear to everyone that Evidence Dog has become at least a temporary part of the unit. He is, it seems, and entirely by his own volition, Peter Boyd's dog.

It amuses Grace no end, her tacit partner's complete lack of overt sentimentality. Somehow the terrier's food, water, blanket, and recently-acquired toys have appeared under Mel's desk in the squad room, but it's immediately obvious that he prefers to sleep under the large briefing table in Boyd's office where he is provided with absolutely nothing. But wherever the man goes, so attempts to go his little grey shadow. Boyd never seems to give a single word of command, Grace notices; he simply snaps his fingers and occasionally points. The dog obeys him, ears pricked, eyes permanently focused on his new master. When Boyd goes where the dog cannot, he simply points at the floor and the animal lies down and waits for him. It is, in fact, rather unnerving, the strange, silent understanding that seems to have quickly and naturally evolved between the two.

"You're such a fraud," Grace accuses when she walks into Boyd's office and finds him absent-mindedly dropping bits of sandwich down to his intent canine companion as he eats lunch seated at his desk. "So, come on, what are you going to do with him?"

Boyd looks up. "What?"

"Fido there," she elucidates. "What are you going to do with him? Swear him in and put him on the staff?"

Frowning, he shakes his head. "Don't be stupid, Grace – where's he going to keep a warrant card? He doesn't have any damn pockets."

"My mistake," she replies, straight-faced. There were reasons – quite a lot of them – why she chose not to reject his tentative advances when things started to change between them, and his dry, peculiar sense of humour was one of them. He can be a hellion, and worse, but he knows how to make her laugh. Taking a seat, she asks, "Seriously, Boyd, what _are_ you going to do with him?"

"Hadn't thought about it," is the dismissive reply. "Have you finished the profile on King?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," she tells him, just a little smug. "And don't change the subject. He may be good for team morale in the short-term, but…"

Boyd snorts. "As far I remember, _I_ was the one all for taking him straight to the bloody dog's home."

"I suppose that would be for the best really," she says, not sure that she believes it.

"Undoubtedly," he agrees, returning his attention to whatever it is he's reading. It looks to Grace like another edict handed down from the DAC's office. Dry and long-winded.

She stares at the top of his head as she continues, "You really _can't_ keep him, you know, Boyd."

He doesn't look up. "Did I ever indicate for a single second that I wanted to?"

"No," Grace admits with a slight smile, "but I know you."

An over-the-glasses look precedes, "Meaning?"

"Oh, nothing," she tells him with a nonchalant shrug. "Just that under all that bravado and bad-temper you're a soft touch."

The dark eyes glint at her. "You think so?"

"I _know_ so," she confirms, not at all intimidated. "I have certain… insider information, remember?"

Whatever Boyd's reply might have been is lost forever as Spencer knocks on the officer door and immediately opens it to say, "Sir? There's a woman upstairs at the main desk who claims we've kidnapped her dog…"

-oOo-

Amongst other things, Michelle Reid is slim, blonde and strident. Grace guesses she's probably in her late thirties or very early forties, but looks rather older in a hard-edged, careworn sort of way. From the moment she's escorted into Boyd's office, it's clear that she intends to make her bristling indignation known in the loudest and simplest of terms. Finally coerced into taking a seat, she does not sound at all mollified as she snaps, "Yeah, my old man does some work for Tom Barrett now and again. What of it?"

"Your 'old man'?" Grace says, seeking clarity. "Your father…?"

"My _partner_ ," Michelle corrects, making no attempt to hide the derisive note of scorn in her voice.

One of the many annoying vagaries of tenacious London slang as far as Grace is concerned – context does not always make it easy to deduce which possible relationship is being referred to. She settles for a nod and a vague murmur in reply.

Boyd speaks before Michelle can. "And your 'old man' would be…" a deliberate pause and a glance down at hand-written notes that Grace is certain have nothing at all to do with the case, "…Gary Scott?"

A nod. "That's right, yeah."

He goes for the kill. "The same Gary Scott who claimed he left the yard at around ten o'clock on the morning of the attack on Mr Barrett…?"

Michelle holds his gaze without flinching. "I don't know anything about that."

"No?" A loose, almost offhand shrug. "But you claim that the dog my officers removed from the crime scene at around two o'clock in the afternoon on the same day belongs to your daughter?"

"I'm not 'claiming' anything," Michelle retorts, tone and expression both sharp. "Benjy _is_ Tiffany's dog. He was her sixth birthday present. Now, are you going to tell me what you've done with him, or…?"

"'Or'?" Boyd drawls in a manner that Grace knows doesn't bode well for Michelle.

A moment of tense silence is followed by a far from conciliatory, "Look, Inspector – "

"Superintendent. _Detective_ Superintendent."

"Whatever," Michelle snaps. Gesticulating, she continues, "Haven't you lot got better things to do with your time than go around taking bloody dogs away from little kids? My Tiffany's distraught. Poor little cow's been crying herself to sleep every night since Benjy went missing, and if it hadn't been for the guy who owns the garage opposite the yard, we'd still have no idea where – "

"Carl Griffiths," Boyd says.

"What?"

"The garage owner," Grace supplies, deciding it's time she contributed to the conversation again. "Miss Reid, you seem to be forgetting that we are investigating a serious assault on Mr Barrett."

"Which has absolutely nothing to do with my family or its pets!" is the indignant response.

Boyd takes over again. "Can you prove that the dog belongs to your daughter? Is it microchipped?"

Michelle frowns, looks at him as if he's grown a second head. "What? No, of _course_ not. Do I look as if I'm made of bloody money?"

The counterstrike is swift. "You do know that under the Control of Dogs Order 1992 it's an offence for any non-working dog to be in a public place without a collar with the owners' information attached? As I understand it, the dog was abandoned tied to a fence with a length of nylon rope. No collar."

"Oh, and you're really going to nick me for that, aren't you, _Detective Superintendent_? And he _wasn't_ abandoned."

"But Gary says he left the yard at ten."

Another silence, then, "Look, my Gary's no saint, everyone knows that, but he's never hurt anyone in his life. He _likes_ Tom."

"What are you almost-but-not-quite telling me, Michelle?" Boyd inquires. "Gary didn't attack Barrett, but maybe he saw who did?"

"I don't – "

"Don't tell me you don't know. Not when we were just starting to get along so well." Boyd picks up a pen, starts to tap the polished surface of his desk with it. The rhythm is choppy, irritating. Deliberately so, Grace is sure. "I think that's what happened, isn't it? He didn't leave the yard at ten. He was still there at eleven when the attack took place. I think he witnessed the start of the attack on Barrett and then he ran for it, leaving the dog behind."

"You'd have to ask him that, not me."

"Oh, I will. Trust me."

"And what about my daughter's dog? What about Benjy?"

-oOo-

Benjy – formerly known as Evidence Dog – starts to bark in wild excitement the moment he hears them. Grace expects Boyd to roar at him to be quiet, but to her surprise her companion says nothing, simply punches in the keycode required to unlock the holding cell door. Staring at the back of his head, she says, "Even if Scott does turn out to be a witness, you don't have a single valid reason not to give them their dog back, you do know that, don't you?"

"Of course I bloody do," he growls at her, opening the cell door. Barking joyfully, Benjy hurtles out of confinement and runs back and forth between them, his tail wagging at ferocious speed. "What makes you think I'm not delighted to be getting rid of the damned thing?"

Knowing there's no direct reply she can give that won't be inflammatory, Grace opts for, "Mel's going to be heartbroken. She's always wanted a dog."

"Just not enough to risk messing up her precious flat." To the dog, Boyd adds a sharp, "Sit bloody down, will you? Stop spinning around like a mad thing."

Mel, Grace thinks, is not the only one who's going to be just a little heartbroken. It should be funny, but it's not. Not at all. He's being so brusque, she knows, because he's refusing to admit, even to himself, that he's lost the ability to cope in any ordinary, rational way with loss. What he's feeling now… it's not about a scruffy little terrier they've known for barely a week. Not at all. It's about the kind of aching, unresolved loss they see time-after-time in every parent with a missing child. As careful as it's possible to be, she says, "It's all right to care, you know."

"It's just a fucking dog, Grace."

 _But it's not, is it?_ she thinks, but doesn't risk saying as much. Instead, she says, "Well, _I'll_ miss him, even if you won't."

"No," he says.

Bewildered, she raises her eyebrows at him. "What?"

" _No_ , we're not going to try to keep him."

"The thought hadn't occurred to me," she lies, "though you might find it therapeutic to – "

"No," Boyd says again, "I'm not getting _another_ bloody dog, either. I don't care how 'therapeutic' you think it might be. I'll just stick with the anger management, thanks."

"Which is clearly doing you the _power_ of good," Grace can't resist sniping back. At first the counselling sessions his superiors had insisted upon had seemed to be beneficial, but it hadn't taken him long to lose patience with the strategies outlined for him and slip back into his old ways, just as she would have predicted if anyone in authority had ever bothered to ask her.

Boyd ignores the gibe, looks down at the dog instead. "Come on, then, Evidence Dog. Let's go and find someone to take you for a quick stroll around the block."

-oOo-

With Mel and Spencer despatched to locate Gary Scott and bring him back to headquarters to be interviewed, a welcome lull falls over the squad room. Frankie is in the lab, Boyd is in his office, and Grace… Well, Grace is enjoying the quiet luxury of an uninterrupted cup of tea while she sifts through her in-tray. When the phone on her desk rings, she answers it without annoyance or trepidation. "Grace Foley."

"Grace," Spencer's voice says. She can hear distant traffic noise in the background.

"Spence. Have you found out where Scott is?"

"Yeah," he confirms, "we're just on the way to pick him up now, but that's not why I'm ringing you."

Something about his sombre tone of voice makes Grace put down her teacup and sit up straight in her chair. "What is it, Spence?"

"I just had a call from Dunbar…"

" _Alison_ Dunbar?" she queries, an odd, unpleasant sinking feeling forming in the pit of her stomach. PC Alison Dunbar, young, enthusiastic, and recently tasked with taking the terrier – Benjy – with his afternoon walk. "What's happened?"

"The dog," Spencer tells her. A pause, then, "Seems something spooked him, and he slipped his collar."

" _And_?" Grace prompts, fearing the worst.

There's an audible heavy sigh followed by, "She says there was absolutely nothing she could do. It all happened far too fast."

The sinking feeling has become a hard knot of dread. " _What_ happened far too fast?"

Spencer's reply is calm and succinct. "I'm sorry, Grace."

-oOo-

"Spence said there wasn't anything Alison could do," Grace says, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. She's surprised at just how potent the effect of the bad news is on her, but that doesn't make her feel any better. Doesn't help with the constricting lump in her throat, either. A few feet away, Boyd says nothing, just continues to sit still and silent, staring straight at her. She feels compelled to add, "Apparently, there was nothing the van driver could do, either. Benjy ran straight out in front of him."

"I see." Quiet. Tight. Controlled. "And Dunbar couldn't call _me_ to explain the situation because…?"

"That's hardly the issue right now, is it?" she snaps at him, not in the mood to waste time explaining just how intimidating and unapproachable a good number of the unit's most junior staff find him. The ones who don't know him well enough to understand that his bark is far often worse than his… No. Bad metaphor, under the circumstances. Holding onto the sudden stab of anger to keep her going, she continues, "Benjy's _dead_ , Boyd. And I swear, if you say he was 'just a dog', I'll…"

Boyd doesn't offer a reply as she lets the words trail, but he doesn't look away from her, either. Doesn't break eye contact for a moment. It's not a lack of courage that's his problem. Never has been. Brave, strong-willed, and fiery – but singularly ill-equipped to deal with personal trauma in any normal, healthy way. What's really going on behind the level dark gaze Grace doesn't dare imagine.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she says, "Anyway… It _wasn't_ Alison's fault, and you mustn't blame her. It was just… a terrible accident."

His response is a gruff, "And that's what I'm supposed to tell the Reid kid, is it? We took her damned dog away from her, and now it's dead – but never mind, it was 'just a terrible accident'?"

The blunt sarcasm makes Grace even angrier. "Just for once, can't you at least _try_ to act like a normal human being with normal human feelings?"

"Meaning?" Boyd challenges, getting to his feet. "For God's sake, Grace... What, you think I don't give a damn?"

"No," she admits, trying to force calm. "No, of course not. I know you do, but sometimes…"

He watches her for a moment, as if waiting for her to continue. When she doesn't, he says, "What do you _expect_ me to do? Seriously, what _do_ you expect? We're at _work_ , for fuck's sake. I'm in charge of this damned unit, in case you'd forgotten, and that means that I can't – "

"All right, all right," she says, trying to halt the tirade before it escalates. She can't prevent bitterness lacing her tone as she continues, "Go ahead and pretend you've got a heart of stone if that's your way of coping, Boyd, but I hope you'll forgive the rest of us for admitting that we're just the tiniest bit upset about poor little Benjy."

"Grace – "

"No," she says, heading for his office door, "I don't want to hear it."

He follows her out into the squad room complaining, "Why do you always have to do this?"

It's one of the worst things he could have said. Blood roaring in her ears, Grace rounds on him. "And what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Boyd comes to a sudden and very wise halt, but he doesn't back down. Waving an expressive hand at her, he growls, " _This_. Blowing things out of all proportion. It's sad about the dog, of course it is, but – "

They are interrupted by the sudden arrival of a pale and wide-eyed Frankie who demands, "Is it true? Has something happened to Max?"

"Benjy," Boyd mutters, turning away from them both and stalking back towards his office, shoulders set square. "His bloody name was _Benjy_."

-oOo-

"Where's Boyd?" is Grace's opening gambit the next morning as she arrives in the squad room to find the man in question conspicuously absent, and his office dark and empty. It's not a disingenuous question – she hasn't seen him since she left headquarters the previous evening. Hasn't heard from him, either, which is even more unusual, even when they're at loggerheads over something. No calls, no texts, nothing. Expecting him to make the first move, she'd made no effort to contact _him_ , either.

It's a tired-looking Mel who says, "He's gone to see the Reid woman."

A chill of apprehension runs down Grace's spine. Boyd is not known for his tact at the best of times. Putting down her bag, she asks, "What? Why?"

"Benjy," Spencer says, attention seemingly all on his computer screen.

"And neither of you thought it might be a good idea to call me and apprise me of this fact?" she demands, incredulous. Why on earth…? Thinking of Michelle Reid's young daughter, she almost cringes. "Oh, God. Didn't you at least try to talk him out of it?"

"Of course we did," Spencer retorts, "but you know what he's like when he gets an idea fixed in his head."

"He's taken… the body," Mel says. "Frankie tried to stop him, but he wasn't having any of it."

Grace sits down with her back to the evidence board and looks from one officer to the other. "Please tell me he wasn't intending to talk to the daughter?"

Spencer shrugs. "No idea. He wasn't in a particularly talkative mood. Sorry, Grace."

"I really wish one of you had called me," she scolds. "At least I could have _tried_ to make sure he was reasonably… sensitive."

Mel snorts, a harsh, telling noise. "When was Boyd _ever_ sensitive about anything? He'll probably just hand her the cardboard box with Benjy in it and say 'Sorry, kid, these things happen'."

For a single foolish moment Grace is almost tempted to leap to his defence. For all his fearsome reputation, he's not a cruel or callous man. Brash, maybe, and impatient, but a long way from unfeeling… despite his behaviour the previous afternoon. For all his faults, she can't believe he would be thoughtless enough to upset a small child. Instead of attempting to overtly defend him, however, she says, "I don't think he'd ever do something like that, Mel."

Spencer looks sceptical. "No?"

"No," she says, her conviction growing. "He's a father himself, don't forget."

"Just not a very good one," Mel mutters under her breath.

Grace hears the accusation, though. Hears, and is incensed. Controlling her growing anger, she grinds out, "That sort of comment is completely uncalled for, Mel, and you know it."

"Well, I'm sorry, Grace, but…" Mel shrugs, but catches Spencer's eye and seems to change her mind. "All right, I take it back. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't," Grace reproves. Shaking her head, she says, "Heaven knows, he's not perfect, but we all know why he does this job. He does it because he _cares_. Not because he _doesn't_."

Without looking up from whatever it is he's doing, Spencer says, "But you still don't think he should have gone to see them alone, do you?"

-oOo-

Boyd returns to headquarters mid-morning, his terse expression and mere grunt of greeting suggesting to everyone that keeping out of his way for the duration might be a very good idea. He asks a number of brusque, pertinent questions about the state of various active cases, then withdraws to his office. Grace watches without appearing to do so, and she waits, trusting to instinct and her extensive knowledge of the man. Approach him too soon, and there will be fireworks. Leave him too long, and he will lapse into the kind of sullen brooding that makes it extraordinarily difficult to communicate with him about anything other than immediate priorities. When she judges that just the right amount of time has passed, she encourages Mel and Spencer to join Frankie in the lab, and then she knocks on Boyd's office door with the precise amount of temerity required to make him look up balefully as she enters the room.

"Do come in," he growls, throwing his pen down onto the papers spread out before him.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Grace asks, "Well? How did the family take the news?"

Nothing in his forbidding expression changes. "About as well as you'd expect."

She nods, easily able to imagine the scene. "Was the daughter there?"

"She was." A pause. "And no, I didn't ask why she wasn't at bloody school. Under the circumstances."

"Good," she says, nodding her approval. "And Gary?"

Boyd shakes his head. "Hasn't been seen since yesterday."

"Well, we know he doesn't live there fulltime." Nodding towards the empty chair in front of his desk, she says, "Can I sit down?"

He leans back a fraction, scratches at his beard. "That depends."

"On?" Grace inquires, easily able to read his body language. He's not sure whether or not she's still furious with him, and whether or not he wants to risk another altercation with her quite so soon.

"Whether you're here to give me a hard time, or not."

"I'm not," she says. "I don't necessarily think going to see them on your own was a good idea, but it's done now."

"It is," he agrees. A little of the strong-set tension seems to leave his shoulders. "Well? Are you _going_ to sit down, then, or are you just going to stand there making me feel uncomfortable?"

It's an olive branch. Of a sort. In the same spirit, she inquires, "Guilty conscience, Boyd?"

"No," he says, with a definite shake of his head, "but somehow you're managing to remind me of a very stern Wren who once berated me for trying to kiss her little sister."

Snorting, Grace sits down and inquires, "Oh? And how old was her sister?"

For the first time in far too long, a hint of a cheeky grin shows. "Well, I was nine, so she must have been about… eleven or twelve?"

She can't help chuckling. He's engaging when he wants to be, and the thought of him as a precocious little boy trying to kiss unwilling girls two or three years older… With a mannered roll of her eyes, she says, "I bet you were a little terror, weren't you?"

"It has been said," Boyd admits. Studying her across the width of his desk, he continues, "I'll save you the trouble of asking, shall I? Yes, I was tactful, and no, I didn't go blundering in like a bull in a china shop."

"I'm glad," she says, and she means it. "You were gone a long time."

"That, Grace," he returns, "is because despite not being suspect in Barrett's assault, Gary Scott is a worthless piece of shit with about as much backbone and moral fibre as a jellyfish."

Not an assessment she feels inclined to disagree with, but she raises her eyebrows, says, "Oh?"

Boyd straightens up in his chair again. "Before he left here yesterday I told him I'd deliver… the body… to them personally so they could bury it."

Pieces begin to fall into place. "And he didn't show up."

Sounding disgusted, he says, "I know he's not the kid's biological father, but even so…"

"…you'd have thought he could have made the effort," Grace finishes, starting to understand. She looks at him closely, notices for the first time a faint trace or two of dried mud marring his otherwise impeccable grey suit. The conclusion she reaches is an obvious one. "So _you_ buried him, instead?"

The answer is a quiet, stoic, "I did."

There are a great many things she could say in response, but Grace knows that he would hate most of them. Easily riled as Boyd is, he's an undemonstrative man when it comes to his own actions, and surprisingly self-effacing in some ways. Effusive praise is the very last thing he ever expects, let alone wants, from anyone. There's a simple honesty to that side of his nature that she's always had considerable grudging admiration for – he does what he thinks is right, not what he thinks will garner him affection or approval. She nods in unspoken acknowledgement, and offers her coded gratitude in a simple question, "Cup of tea?"

"Coffee," he replies, reaching for the closed folder balancing on the top of the precarious pile by his desk phone. "If you've got a spare moment."

Such a short, mundane exchange of words, and yet both of them are saying so much more, Grace knows. It's a perfect example of the way they've learned to communicate all the things that are too difficult or too dangerous to express in the kind of complicated speeches that are far too open to misunderstanding and misinterpretation. Nodding, she gets to her feet. "Coffee it is, then."

"Shame it's not later in the day," he says, picking up his pen again, "a glass of Scotch wouldn't go amiss right now."

It's an oblique invitation. One she accepts without hesitation. "Tonight."

"Good." He starts to scratch annotations in the margins of the printed pages in front of him. "Thanks, Grace."

Grace leaves his office feeling, if not exactly light-hearted, far more settled than she did when she first entered it. As she passes Mel's desk on her way to the aging, unreliable drinks machine that keeps the team fortified on a daily basis, she notices that the dog bowl and bedding that were tucked beneath it only the day before have mysteriously vanished.

No matter what happens, she thinks, no matter how big or small, life always goes on.

 _\- the end -_


End file.
